A Little Life, Hanaya Yanagihara

01bookyanagihara-master180 This book broke my heart. It has taken me three attempts to read it – the first two times I had to stop because I simply couldn’t breath for the weight of all the sorrow. But I persisted. And I’m glad for it. The writing is magnificent. Each sentence is like an orchard or a field of wild flowers in bloom with the soft mountain breeze creating an orchestra of movement and the slow echo of a waterfall or spring shifting in the background. I found myself repeatedly falling into the prose, drowning, not just in the sadness, but also in the sheer beauty of Yanagihara’s prose, the tone, the majesty. I highlighted whole pages, emailed them to my friends, read and reread.

There was so much to love that it is hard to know where to start… For me, the thing that I found most intriguing was the fact that this is a story about the bond of male friendships. It’s rare to read something that so intimately explores not just male characters who are so complex and diverse, but also the ties that bind them. I loved the camaraderie, the at times fraught tension between the individual creative genius and the different connections between these four characters – the jealousies and the love. I loved the honesty. And the lies. And although the sorrow is burdensome, it is also very rich in a way that I have never before encountered.

What also struck me about this book was its driving theme of happiness – What is it? How do we define it? Can we define it?

But what was happiness but an extravagance, an impossible state to maintain, partly because it was so difficult to articulate?

While this thread meanders throughout the novel, it is coupled with the motif of love and friendship and the blurry lines between these two states – “And still, the friendship spooled on and on, a long, swift river that had caught him in its slipstream and was carrying him along, taking him somewhere he couldn’t see.” Yanagihara comes back to this theme repeatedly, exploring friendships not only between these four protagonists but also between them and other characters, and relationships in general – the potential that exists when “both people … recognise the best of what the other person had to offer and had chosen to value it as well.”

Friendship was witnessing another’s slow drip of miseries, and long bouts of boredom, and occasional triumphs. It was feeling honoured by the privilege of getting to be present for another person’s most dismal moments, and knowing that you could be dismal around him in return.

There is so much to peel away from this narrative but to do so would be to spoil it for those intending to read it. I will only say that I loved it but I hated it at the same time. Part of me wants to read it again. And again. And again. Another part of me wants to bury the memory of this book forever.

The Fence, Meredith Jaffe

4628453360_335x515“I promise you one thing, young lady. Building a fence is not going to keep the world out and won’t keep your children in. Life’s not that simple.”

I have a thing for fences, ever since a History professor of mine during my undergraduate degree set an essay question about the Arab-Israeli Conflict using Robert Frost’s poem, Mending Wall, which ends so poignantly: “Good fences make good neighbours.” I’ve wondered often about this notion and the concept of personal space and delineation, how fencing something out can sometimes equate to simultaneously fencing yourself in, protection and preservation meets isolation. So it was that this book appealed to me immediately.

Meredith Jaffe has done a marvellous thing in this story. She’s brought two such incredibly diverse characters together in direct opposition to tell her story over the construction of a fence.  This book magnificently describes Australian suburban life, epitomised by Gwen Hill who has lived on Green Valley Avenue since it was first constructed. Her house and garden epitomise everything she loves about the street and the neighbourhood. Here she has grown her family, built friendships, nurtured herself and her husband. And into this warm space comes Francesca Desmarchelliers, Frankie, who is everything that Gwen isn’t. She is city chic and concrete to Gwen’s lush gardens, she is unruly and modern to Gwen’s conservatism and she is desperately trying to save her marriage and her family

What evolves is a wonderful insight into the challenges that neighbours sometimes face, into how we engage each other as people and into the empathy that is required to move successfully through this world.

Jaffe’s novel is a delight! She’ll be speaking on a panel of debut authors with Nathan Besser at the upcoming Sydney Jewish Writers Festival – you won’t want to miss this one!

Man in the Corner, Nathan Besser

BesserI just went on a crazy ride with Nathan Besser in his debut novel, Man in the Corner. Crazy because in this novel Besser has woven together a collection of seemingly random threads to create the kind of fiction that has the mind boggling. I’m not even sure how one describes this genre – it’s kind of a psychological mystery verging on family drama with some crime fiction twists to it. It’s filled with strange twists and some intriguingly scary characters. And the strangest thing is that while reading this twisted tale, you can’t help but feel like its protagonist, poor David, who is apparently stuck in a plot that he can’t seem to escape, victim of a series of crimes which have made him into a criminal.

What appealed to me most about this tale though, was the fact that it was set in Maroubra. I live in Maroubra. The places Besser describes, the streets, the cafes and the vistas, are all places that I know and this made my insight into Besser’s tale even more delightful. I dare say it’s the first Australian fiction that I’ve read and enjoyed in a long, long time.

It is easy to see why Simon Baker loves Besser’s book. It will make an outstanding film. It was a delightfully gripping read, although difficult to review without giving away too much of the plot!

Nathan Besser will be speaking at the Sydney Jewish Writers Festival on Sunday August 28th at 4.30pm along with other debut novelists Lexi Landsman and Meredith Jaffe. Don’t miss this exciting opportunity to hear from a new generation of authors!

Saved to Remember, Frank Vajda

It is hard to know what is most awe-inspiring about this book – Vajda’s story of survival or all that he achieved in the years following his liberation. Both narratives are extraordinary.

I read this book as I do most Holocaust memoirs, with a deep breath, stealing myself against what is about to unfold and waiting for the triumph of a magnificent spirit. Vajda’s book fulfilled most of the expectations. It describes his family, the life they lead before the war, their relationships and experiences. It explains in stark detail the war itself, how he survived and most specifically his encounter with Raoul Wallenberg at age 9.

Vajda’s introduction clearly sets out his reasons for writing:

I survived by a series of near misses and coincidences.  Although not being mutilated physically, I became scarred emotionally as a result. Being able to recollect in writing these events and their effect on conditioning my subsequent responses is an opportunity I am grateful for…

… This narrative however is secondary to my prime motive of expressing feelings of sorrow and shame, and, as much as any single person can, trying to prevent the recurrence of circumstances that culminate in racial mass murder.

It is impossible not to be moved by Vajda’s story and by the brave clarity with which he narrates it. However, what impressed me most about Frank Vajda is the brief CV which accompanies his entry on the Booktopia website.

Frank Vajda AM, Officer 1st.cl. Royal Order of Polar Star (Sweden), MD FRCP FRACP, is a consultant neurologist, Professorial Fellow, University of Melbourne, Director of the Australian Pregnancy Register of Antiepileptic Drugs, Past President of Epilepsy Society of Australia, International Ambassador for Epilepsy, Member of the International Pregnancy Register Board, Head of the Free Wallenberg Australian Committee and Founder of Raoul Wallenberg Centre of Clinical Neuropharmacology.

This combined with Vajda’s reference to close friend Jacob Rosenberg whose magnificent poetry is beyond inspiring, led me to further investigate Vajda’s CV which I found online, an impressive 50 page document clearly exposing Vajda as ambitious, dedicated, a gifted physician, and a high achiever. I poured slowly through his CV, marvelling at his contribution to academia and his honours, appointments and long list of qualifications. I was left feeling conflicted for here is a man who has achieved greatness as a neurologist, helped hundreds if not thousands of people through his work and changed the face of neurology through his research and so much of all that he has achieved has come about because of the devastation and tragedy of the Holocaust. So much of who he is seems to come as a direct result of all he lost. How does one reconcile these contradictions? Vajda has done just this by making it his mission to honour those who were lost and to bring recognition and honour to heroes like Raoul Wallenberg who saved so many lives.

In my mind, while Wallenberg is clearly Vajda’s hero, Vajda himself is a hero for telling his story and for bringing so much richness to our world.

Not only should you read Frank’s book because of the light it sheds on this dark period of human history; but you should also make sure that you are present to hear Vajda talk about surviving the Holocaust which he will be doing on a panel at the Sydney Jewish Writers Festival on August 28th.

Whisperings in the Blood, Shelley Davidow

download (1)Reading this book was like being taken gently by the hand and walking into the heart of music. Literally. It was beautiful. A song painted in bright colours and then filled with a shower of stars and then softly faded into delicate hues of autumn and spring and heart ache and wonder. I am positively in awe of Davidow’s writing, of the tenderness of her narrative voices and of the layered strands that she has woven together to create this masterpiece. It is difficult not to gush.

This book made me fall in love with my own grandparents, long to hear their voices and particularly to feel the shudder of my grandfather’s own violin. It made me wonder at my own family’s journey across continents to arrive at this grand Antipodes and I ached for all that was lost in that litany of moves.

I don’t want to reveal too much because, as I tell my students, there’s no point trying to retell a story that belongs to someone else. You will never tell is as well as the person who owns the story. So, all I’m going to do is give you the gift of Davidow’s opening few paragraphs. The rest I will leave you to savour when you find this book and sink into it and drown in the story and its people.

The spring of 1913, and a young man from a remote village in Lithuania steals a ride on a train headed for the city. Everything around him as turned the colour of ash, as the cold seeps across the land, pressing any signs of life deep into the ground.

Perhaps it is written in his blood: a special code which will emerge later in someone else, generations into the future, in nightmares and fears; in someone’s inability to breathe. In Vilnius, the frowning buildings as he arrives stop him from breathing.

He has a sense of impending tragedy. Maybe his lack of breath has to do with the act of leaving. And yet who would ache to leave this behind – this wasteland of grief and broken souls? Pogroms and nights of bloodshed and terror will live in him no matter how far he travels. Loss has encoded itself in the flow of his blood, in the beating of his heart – a ghost that will travel through time, through his DNA.

The future is already written, but he cannot read it. He can only sense its weight, its texture, and he has to believe that anything is better than this. As his life flashes by outside a fast-moving train, his past dissolves. The village and the 1800s have disappeared forever. This hours in the wig factory are gone. He hopes he will no longer feel he must apologise for the act of living.

Go. Find this book. Read it. Now. And then book yourself in to hear Shelley Davidow speak at the Sydney Jewish Writers Festival.

Steven Amsterdam, The Easy Way Out

downloadThis was one of those uncomfortable books that you just have to keep reading. I kept feeling as though I couldn’t read sitting still, as though I needed to somehow protest the issues being raised by the protagonists – there was too much at stake to simply be passive, a reader on the outside of some grand narrative. But, read it I did, and without launching a rebellion and throughout, my heart ached a soft, quiet song at the thought of what was endured in this painful telling.

Steven Amsterdam is a palliative care nurse. In his acknowledgements, he explains, briefly, the impetus for writing this novel:

Over the years that I have worked as a palliative care nurse, despairing patients or fearful carers have occasionally asked me if something might be done to speed things up. My first answer is short and legal, some softened variant of No. Then I reorient the discussion to pain managements and specific burdens to see if there are any other measures that my excellent organisation can offer them to ease their distress. WE can almost always improve a situation. When we can’t, and when the topic comes up again, part of me wishes I could say, Sure, just let me get the drugs fro you. But another part of me is glad that task is not within my job description.

This is the basis of The Easy Way Out‘s plot; Evan, a nurse involved in a new, hospital run program to help people in the final stages of a terminal illness to die, comes to question his role, the extent of his ability to help people, and the boundaries of his own humanity. It brings a whole new meaning to the word ‘profound’. There is no doubt that Evan’s journey is interesting and the people he assists, who readers briefly encounter as they make their last voyage into death, are equally fascinating. However, what I found truly remarkable about this novel, was Evan himself.

Evan is quite possibly one of the most complex protagonists I have ever encountered. He acknowledges that he is totally committed to his job and indeed, he quite enjoys his role on the outside of various patients’ experiences of dying. He feels empowered by his ability to assist these people. Yet, this is not what makes Evan interesting. Rather, the true depths of his complexity lie in his relationship with his powerhouse mother, the unresolved death of his father and his inability to truly connect to others. Ironically, it is the bond between him and his mother, Viv, that ultimately lead him to find himself and to accept that he is not God.

There is much more to write about this novel but it is hard to discuss without spoiling the plot and revealing too much. Instead, you should just read the book and then take a long hard look at your own humanity and ask the question: Would you help someone end their life?

You can hear Amsterdam and other amazing authors speak at the Sydney Jewish Writers Festival which takes place on August 27-28th at Waverley Library, Bondi Junction. Amsterdam will be on a panel entitled ‘We Need to Talk About Dying: Facing the Inevitable’ with author Leah Kaminsky and Rabbi David Freedman.

Clouds of Glory, Millie Phillips

contentMy children’s school has a wing endowed in the name of Lynette Phillips. I had never questioned the legacy of this Lynette. Regularly I walked by this wing and noted the sign and thought fleetingly what a lovely way this was to commemorate someone. The school I attended also featured a tribute to Lynette, but that too I never questioned.

It was only when someone handed me this book that I realised that the Lynette Phillips whose name graces my children’s school was actually the daughter of Millie Phillips, one of the most generous philanthropists that the Sydney Jewish community has ever known.

There are two ways to approach a review of this book – from a literary perspective and from a narrative perspective. Rather than critique the literary qualities of Millie’s book, I’m going to focus on the narrative because I was so taken by the story that it seems worth discussing.

After reading this book it is impossible to deny that Millie Phillips is a strong, committed and driven woman. Her story is fraught with incredible trials and tribulations, and with abuse and trauma. On the one hand, Millie is a business woman, building an empire, but behind closed doors she seems to be powerless to battle her abusive husband and dysfunctional family. How she reconciled these two realms is hard to fathom. But clearly she did because in one sense she triumphed – she survived.

What didn’t survive was Millie’s relationship with her children and in fact the book itself is a kind of love story, a testimony to the depth of her connection with one of those children, Lynette, who joined a cult and self-immolated at the age of 24. Parts of this memoir read like an elegy to Lynette and the enormous loss that Millie suffered when she died.

There is so much complexity in this memoir that it is difficult to explain – it is hard not to be in awe of all that Millie accomplished and the grandiosity of her vision about everything she attempted – nursing homes, mines, life itself. At the same time, it is impossible not to feel her sorrow.

What has stayed with me is that Millie Phillips is a woman from whom one could learn a great deal, a woman I would quite like to meet but never cross.

For those of you planning to read this memoir, one word of warning: to me it seemed that this book was written by two different people. The first part is quite simply magnificent and captivated me entirely, drawing me in to the narrative and the emotion of the telling. It is eloquent and brilliant. The second part lacks this quality. I read it nonetheless, but I couldn’t help thinking that there were two voices speaking here – three if we count Lynette. My advice: read the first part and love it and love Millie for all she represents for women in our age and then stop and read something else.

Make Me, Lee Child

Make-Me-pbNothing is better than a cold and rainy day, a cup of hot tea and a Jack Reacher tale. There is something about Lee Child’s protagonist that is so incredibly appealing – The Washington Post calls him “the stuff of myth…. One of this century’s most original, tantalising pop-fiction heroes” and I couldn’t agree more. Jack Reacher represents the great unknown. He is a wanderer, a nomad, travelling with only the clothes on his back from town to town, stopping wherever he feels the need. He is astute, curious, a keen observer and endearingly fearless. But I think that what makes Reachers such a fascinating character is the deep sense of aloneness that travels with him. He really is a solitary figure and even when he connects with other characters, he still maintains this aura of isolation.

Like all of Lee Child’s thrillers, this one is fast paced, racing through the action, filled with twists and unexplained clues. It’s 262 pages are weightless, making this the perfect book for a long flight or a summer holiday.

For those of you, like me, who are Lee Child fans, this book won’t disappoint!

 

The Seven Good Years, Etgar Keret

imagesI’m not generally a fan of satirical writing. It’s a personal thing. I don’t mind a short piece of satire, but for some reason, a long novel or even a short story just doesn’t do it for me. And it’s not because I haven’t tried. I have. Truly. And not just in English but in Hebrew, too. Neither seems to stick and I could never wrap my head around the attraction of this genre. So now you’re asking, well if you don’t like satire, what’s with this review of Etgar Keret’s memoir The Seven Good Years?

Well, the honest truth is that I had the privilege of attending an event hosted by the Sydney Jewish Writers Festival where Etgar Keret read from his memoir, touching on some of the nuances which informed its writing and elucidating the textures of his relationship with his father. There was something magical about hearing Keret read his own work, something real and tangible and true. His reading made me revisit the books that I have of his in Hebrew and they seemed more palatable when I could hear his voice echoing in my head. I loved hearing Keret describe the absurdity of his wife going in to labour against the backdrop of a terrorist attack. The vignette is filled with such palpable wisdom and simultaneously opens a field of sorrow and it’s this attempt to reconcile the two states which is simply a true reflection of living in Israel.

Six hours later, a midget with a cable hanging from his belly-button comes popping out of my wife’s vagina and immediately starts to cry. I try to calm him down, to convince him that there’s nothing to worry about. that by the time he grows up, everything here in the Middle East will be settled: peace will come, there won’t be any more terrorist attacks – and even if once in a blue moon there is one, there will always be someone original, someone with a little vision, around to describe it perfectly. He quiets down and considers his next move. He’s supposed to be naive – seeing how he’s a newborn – be even he doesn’t buy it, and after a second’s hestitation and a small hiccup, he goes back to crying.

While the whole book didn’t sing to me in this fashion, there were enough moments to make it a memorable and worthwhile read. Moments which touched my soul – like his story about the Accident where he juxtaposes a taxi drivers obsession with a scratch to his cab with his emotional distress at his wife’s miscarriage and his father’s cancer.

Alone in the cab, I can feel the tears rising. I don’t want to cry. I don’t want to feel sorry for myself. I want to be positive, like my dad. My wife is fine now and we already have a wonderful son. My dad survived the Holocaust and has reached the age of eighty-three. That’s not just a half-full glass; it’s an overflowing one. I don’t want to cry. Not in this taxi.

There is something very raw in the simplicity of Keret’s narrative and this trembling honesty appears specifically when he speaks about his family, and at times when he engages in a discussion about Israel.

And no, it’s not that we Israelis long for war or death or grief, but we do long for those ‘old days’the taxi driver talked about. We long for a real war to take the place of all those exhausting years of intifada, when there was no black or white, only grey; when we were confronted not by armed forces but only by resolute young people wearing explosive belts; years when the aura of bravery ceased to exist, replaced by long lines of people waiting at our checkpoints, women about to give birth, and elderly people struggling to endure the stifling heat…. we’re no better than anyone else at resolving moral ambiguities. but we always did know how to win a war.

There have been many reviews of this memoir – the New York Times‘ Adam Wilson posits some interesting notions, specifically about what defines a ‘good year’, and The Guardian calls Keret “a master: bracing, compassionate, so absolutely himself”. Perhaps the essence of the magic of Keret’s writing is that he focuses so intently on life – “so it goes on. Life is lived, in spite of what is happening – and sometimes because of it.”

Am I a convert to satire as a genre? I don’t think so. But I do certainly appreciate the magic of Keret’s writing and his enormous contribution to the political commentary so closely associated with Israel and life there.

The Trap, Melanie Raabe

9781925240870Sue Turnbull at The Sydney Morning Herald classifies The Trap as a work of ‘domestic noir’ fiction along with the likes of Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl, S.J. Watson’s Before I Go To Sleep and Paula Hawkins’ The Girl on The Train. Turnbull’s review describes Raabe’s book as classic ‘domestic noir’ complete with the “seemingly interminable self-doubt and self-delusion that characterise the central character’s path to enlightenment” and the twist that inevitably occurs at some point in the narrative.

There is no doubt that Raabe’s debut novel is both psychological thriller and specifically, ‘domestic noir’. It contains all of the elements of a book that would usually grab my attention and keep my gripped until the bitter end. It certainly jumped off the shelf and into my arms when I spied it in the Hot Reads section of the Public Library!

Some of the things that impressed me in this novel:

Raabe’s descriptive powers. Raabe has a wonderful ability to use detail and description in a subtle and artistic way. I found that this skill enhanced that narrative and the character development and gave me a clear insight into some of the book’s thematic concerns.

It is autumn, and as I stand here gazing out, I have the feeling I’m looking in a mirror. The colours are building to a crescendo; the autumn wind makes the trees sway, bending some branches and breaking others. It is a dramatic and beautiful day…

She hasn’t belaboured the image here, the description is simple and concise, yet packed with power – the personification of the colours, as though they have the power to build and create sound is magnificent and enables readers to really experience the scene. And this is just one example of many evocative uses of sensory imagery and intense description.

The concept. I thought the concept for this plot was intriguing. One sister finds the other murdered in her apartment and is convinced she sees the killer. So begins her spiral down into a psychological disorder which prevents her from leaving her home and leaves her a recluse:

The villa is my world. The sitting room with its open fire is my Asia, the library my Europe, the kitchen my Africa. North America is in my study. My bedroom is South America, and Australia and Oceania are out on the terrace. A few steps away, but completely unreachable.

I haven’t left the house for eleven years.

Raabe’s ability to reveal insights into the protagonist’s world is astounding. “It’s not a wide world, my world, but it’s safe. At least, that’s what I thought.”

Narrative structure. Conceptually, I thought the narrative structure was perfect for fleshing out the plot and illustrating for readers how Linda, the protagonist, was trying to unpack her theories about her sister’s death while dealing with the residual psychological trauma of the experience of her loss. Raabe cleverly constructs the foreground narrative of Linda’s present, ‘real’ life which unfolds in her house and revolves around her seeing a photograph of the man she believes killed her sister. The secondary narrative is presented in the form of Linda’s latest book called ‘Blood Sisters’ which she writes as a ploy to illicit a confession from her sister’s killer.

I loved the idea of this structure but in practise it didn’t always work for me and at times in the telling I found myself distracted by the switch of narrative voice and wanting the narrative to ‘hurry up’, so to speak.

Psychological angle. I think it was this that held most potential for me in Raabe’s novel: Linda’s psychological torment, the nature of her illness, the battle she faces to uncover the truth, her self doubt. It is clear from reading Raabe’s book that she attempts to overtly engage with each of these elements and at times she does so brilliantly, but there were moments in my reading where I found Linda’s rising self doubt unconvincing and this made me question the narrative structure and the power of Linda’s voice in this telling.

Nonetheless, my overall experience of Raabe’s book is that it was enjoyable. If you are a reader who likes a bit of a psychological thrill in the domestic noir genre, then this is definitely a book for you!